Dick and I share only one thing in common as husband and wife. Our birthdays are on the same day. We were born on the mystical magical date of August 15. This places us both under the Zodiac sign, Leo. But we couldn’t be more different. I’m spontaneous, flexible, articulate, and full-blooded Italian. Dick’s phlegmatic, rigid, quiet, and his ancestors come from Sweden and Czechoslovakia—need I say more?
We first met on a blind date as teenagers. Dick, worldly at 16, and me, a mere child of 15. Our first evening together, we chatted away in his 1959 Thunderbird convertible under the stars, about important matters concerning teenagers in 1966, muscle cars and the draft (him), the Beatles on Ed Sullivan (me), when Dick, asked out of the blue, “when is your birthday?” When I told him, he took out his wallet—his hands shaking, flashed his driver’s license at me, legally stating his date of birth: 8/15/50, right below, Hair/Blond and Eyes/Hazel. We were aghast! He kissed me for the first time and asked me to marry him. Since he was older and wiser, and since I still had Paul McCartney’s photograph scotch taped over my bed, I said, “okay!” Dick said it was a sign, in the stars, our fate, our destiny.
We celebrated our 48th wedding anniversary this year and I can tell you that the stars had nothing to do with it. I prefer to agree with the famous words William Cowper penned in his 18th Century hymn, “God moves in mysterious ways; His wonders to perform.” In other words, God blessed it anyway, and we wouldn’t be “us,” without him.
Now that I’ve told you the sentimental part of our same-day birthday, let me tell you the sad part. I’ve never had a birthday cake with just my name on it! Before I met Dick, I had to share my day with the Blessed Virgin Mary. August 15 is a holy day in the Catholic Church, “The Feast of the Assumption.” My birthday felt somber and well, holy. I had to go to Mass which seemed horribly unfair. Even worse, relatives, especially my Godmother, gave me a different bust of Mary on my birthday growing up. I had this collection of ceramic Marys, all over my dresser and night stand.
So starting with Mary, here’s what the top of my cakes have looked like over the years: The Blessed Virgin Mary and Christine Marie; Rich and Chris; Christine and Dick, Aunt Christine and Uncle Dick; Mom and Dad; Nani and Boppi; and—Mr. and Mrs. Richard Lind. Our oldest daughter, Jenny, has made cakes for us over the years and did her best to celebrate it; our youngest, Anna, has taken over the mantel lately (she grew up thinking everyone’s parent’s birthdays were on the same day, till a bully on the playground told her the facts), she’ll host our party this year.
My father had a saying, every time the entire family gathered together—he would look around at all of us, and proudly state: “I started all this.” I look around at our entire family and wonder, where did all these people come from! I think it might have been our birthday, “started all this!” I guess, Dick and I have more than one thing in common.
Anna told me she wanted to make us individual cakes this year—I told her no, I’m used to it now and too much trouble! And besides, I really do want to share my birthday cake with her dad. I really do want to share it with that teenager—that teenager who blamed it on the stars—and secured forever, his name alongside mine on a birthday cake. Move over, Blessed Virgin Mary—happy birthday to us!